First Words
by May a Chance
Summary: Have you ever wondered how they met? Thomas and Teresa or Newt and Alby? A series of one-shots (at least 2) of how the Gladers met before the Glade. Begins with Thomas and Teresa's first meeting before the Glade. I will take suggestions for future chapters.
1. Thomas and Teresa

**Disclaimer: I do not own this amazing franchise know as the Maze Runner. All rights go to James Dashner, the author of the Maze Runner, and his publishing company whom he probably sold the rights to. This story is written purely for my entertainment with nothing to do with profit or recognition. "I write what I want to write, I write what amuses me, it's totally for myself."- J.K. Rowling.**

**This one-shot is canon compliant and happened in Maze Runner Files, only it is not a transcript. May be part of a series of future one-shots of the first meetings of Gladers.**

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><p>Thomas had never expected that he would meet anyone other than the scientists in the WICKED headquarters. He certainly had not expected that it would be so soon, and especially not with sneaking out on purpose. Of all the unexpected things that Thomas could think of, being the first of the two young pupils was at the higher end of the list. But, of course, he was the first to speak. "Hey," he offered casually. The child across the table, a average height, black-haired girl with starting blue eyes, looked over at him blankly, not showing emotion.<p>

"Hi," she replied absently, not seeming particularly interested in the conversation, rather gazing around the small room they had been enclosed in. It was not a particularly interesting room, though. The walls were a blank grey and windowless. The table was a plain, slightly darker grey, the same tone as the chairs. In the corners of each room there was a security camera, watching their every move.

"Why did they put us here?" Thomas asked, trying to spark a conversation despite the girl's, Teresa's, thoughts otherwise.

"I don't know. They wanted us to meet and talk, I guess." Again, no spark of life from the girl. She was like a robot, emotionless and lifeless.

Sighing, Thomas asked another question, refusing to give up the prospect of conversation. Having lived for four years in isolation, not seeing anyone under the age of thirty, he was not about to let the prospect of actually speaking to someone slip away. "How long have you been here?" Was the first question to his mind.

"Since I was five," Teresa responded lifelessly.

Not a very informative answer, considering that Thomas did not know how old the girl was. "So...?" He prompted.

"So four years," was the blue-eyed girl's bland response.

That caught Thomas' attention. She seemed older than just nine. "You're only nine?" became his confused response. He was not lying. Teresa really did seem older than him, even if not by much. Age was always a very important thing for a child, Thomas being no exception to such matters. He had always been a curious child, eager to learn more about the people and world around him. Despite his quiet intelligence, he also had a quiet, childlike innocence that, despite his trying to supress it, always seemed to cause the scientists to smile at him.

"Yeah. Why? How old are you?" Teresa asked easily, finally having a faint spark of life in her eyes. Thomas brightened instantly, smiling cheerfully. It always made him happy when someone expressed interest in who he was, not just his supposed intelligence. Teresa let out a faint snort of laughter at his express, amusement slipping onto her face. She didn't seem like a robot any longer.

"Same," Thomas said cheerfully. "You just seem older is all." The unspoken question was received by the smaller nine-year-old before him.

"I'll be ten soon. Haven't you been here just as long?" Teresa's voice was suddenly full of life, cheerful and warm, so unlike how she had sounded before, cold and emotionless. It was not that Thomas like human interaction or was good with reading emotions, rather that he was simply happy that someone else was just like him, quiet and unnoticed but still bright underneath a layer of something else.

"Yeah."

"Why do they keep us separate?" Teresa asked suddenly. "I can hear other kids screaming and laughing all the time. And I've seen the big cafeteria. It's gotta feed hundreds." Her voice had become suddenly harsh and icy to Thomas' ears.

"So they bring your food to your room too?" Thomas asked in response, intrigued by the similarities between them.

"Three times a day," Teresa confirmed. "Most of it tastes like a toilet."

Thomas let out a startled bark of laughter at her last sentence. "So you know what a toilet tastes like?" He inquired, sincerely curious as to how the black-haired girl before him would have decided on such word choice. It seemed rather unlikely that she actually knew what a toilet tasted like, but hey? Why not ask?

"Can't be worse than the food they give us," Teresa replied, grinning a grin that showed off two missing front teeth.

"Heh," Thomas laughed in response. It was quite true. "You're right," he grinned back, showing his own missing teeth. He had been rather proud when they had fallen out, yet saddened when no Tooth Fairy had left coins under his pillow like he had read about in an old children's book. He had always brushed them well, so why had such a fairy not come?

"So there must be something different about us, don't you think?" Teresa prompted softly, looking suddenly thoughtful.

Yawning, Thomas replied. "I guess. There has to be a reason we're kept alone. But it's hard to guess what when we don't even know why we're here."

"I know. Is your life pretty much school stuff from wake-up to lights-out?" Teresa asked, using the simple slang that the scientists used around the nine-year-olds. Once again, Teresa had been the one prying rather than Thomas who seemed to be the shier of the two, nervous around a new person but still willing to speak to them.

"Just about."

"They keep telling me how smart I am."

"Me too. It's weird."

"I think it has something to do with the Flare," Teresa offered, referring to the extremely dangerous disease that had been ravaging the earth for several years. In just those several years, the Flare had wiped out three fourths of the population and had infected well over half of the remaining people. "Did your parents catch it before WICKED took you?"

Instantly, Thomas felt a shudder pass through his small, yet still taller than Teresa, body. "I don't want to talk about it," he whispered softly. His father had caught it and nearly killed both him and his mother before being taken away. Just a few short days later, Thomas' mother had given him to WICKED just after she came down with the first symptoms of the terrible disease.

"Why not?" Teresa inquired.

Thomas turned his hazel eyes on her, as cold as ice. "I just don't!" He snapped in response, turning his torso away from her to glare petulantly at one of the walls. Another shudder raced through him as his father's crazed, hazel eyes, Thomas' eyes, flashed in his vision. Thomas' heart pounded at the thought of his father eating a small dog from the streets.

"Fine then," Teresa scoffed. "Me neither."

"Why are we even here, anyway? Seriously, what're we supposed to be doing?"

"Talking," Teresa replied blandly. "Being tested. I don't know. Sorry being around me is so freaking boring for you."

Pain flashed beneath Thomas' closed eyelids It hurt to have someone be angry at him. "Huh? He asked worriedly, gazing at the blue-eyed girl quietly. Thomas sincerely wanted this girl to be his friend, if only since neither of them had ever had a friend before. "You're mad?" His voice took on a nervous pitch, causing Teresa to give him a slight smile beneath her mask of anger.

"No, I'm not mad," she said finally. "You just don't seem very nice."

Anger boiled up on Thomas and he turned a glare at the girl. _I'd like to see you talk about your father strangling your mum!_ He snapped mentally.

"I kind of like the idea of having a friend," she said suddenly.

"Sorry, Thomas said glumly. Sound kind of good to me, too."

"Then maybe we passed the test. Maybe they wanted to see if we'd get along."

"Whatever," Thomas huffed. "I quit guessing about things a long time ago."

"So... Friends?" Teresa asked hopefully.

"Friends," Thomas agrees calmly, though not entirely sure he likes this girl.

"Shake on it," she ordered bossily, sticking a hand out across the table between them. Thomas shook it calmly.

"Okay."

"Hey, does your brain hurt sometimes? I mean, not just like a normal headache, but deep down inside your skull?" She asked, leaning forward, anxious to hear his answer.

"What?" Thomas almost shouted. "Are you serious? Yes!"

Suddenly, Teresa froze. "Shh!" She hissed at him. "Quiet, someone's coming. We'll talk about this later."


	2. Newt and Alby

**Disclaimer: Refer to first chapter.**

**Non-canon but canon-compliant (could have happened). Thoughts on Newt's accent are not shared by me, rather the stupidity and prejudice of young children when if comes to the idea of someone having an awesomer accent than another. Following this will likely be Thomas and Newt's first meeting. Please don't kill me for this.**

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><p>Newt wasn't overly fond of spending all of his time around three hundred noisy children of his age or older. Something about it, possibly the loud noises, just bugged him and the more he tried to melt into a pool of butter on the ground, the harder the other children tried to bring him into their games. It wasn't only that Newt was slightly quiet for a boy of his age, but also he had long since become annoyed with the constant teasing he received for his accent- something that Newt simply couldn't change about himself. It seemed that the much taller boy before him would be no different. Said boy, was a tall African-American boy who with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes that seemed to bore into Newt, a small, rusty-haired boy with green eyes, like a drill bore through stone. Needless to say, the boy was an intimidating figure, particularly to a five-year-old child who was in completely new surroundings. Not just new in the last five minutes of walking into the cafeteria space, but a deeper new.<p>

Yes. Newt was new to the WICKED facilities. Completely new, never been there before, the latest guy among an easy three hundred to become part of the Killzone Experiments. How terribly exciting. Not that Newt wasn't grateful that WICKED had taken him away from the cranks who had been planning on killing him, but he would rather not have his memory wiped and brainwaves monitored for reactions to different things. If there was one thing that Newt disliked, it was feeling controlled.

Finally, it was the other boy who spoke first in the loud enclosure of the WICKED cafeteria that was pretty much the only place that the young children were permitted to be loud. So they were, needless to say, extremely loud, all the time. "Hello," he practically shouted over the noise of the cafeteria surrounding them. "I'm Alby. What's your name?"

Newt glanced away quietly, not speaking in his strange accent in this strange place. The few times he had spoken to the other children or talked in their classes, he had been ridiculed for being different. Newt didn't like being ridiculed. Finally, he sighed, giving up on his attempt at silence. Newt actually liked to talk so found it hard to stay quiet since his accent was so _weird_. "Newt, mate."

Alby almost choked. "You're the newbie everyone's talkin' 'bout! Sonya said you talked funny and tried to imitate it! She sounded like some sorta koala trying to act like a Brit!" Newt frowned, offended at the lack of care for his feelings. Alby continued to chatter away about Newt's accent, eventually trying to imitate it himself. " 'Ello, man! All's swell, ain't it?" He let out a harsh bark of laughter and smiled at Newt sickly. The smaller blond curled his lip in a mixture of irritation and disgust.

"Shut up," Newt snapped icily. "Do yerself a favour and shut yer bloody mouth! I don't give a bloody for a thing you have to say now, do I? Do I?!" He challenged glaring daggers at the older boy. His words cut through the air like a knife. A girl at a nearby table, a girl who looked enough like Alby to be his sister, looked over curiously, a creepy smile coming over her face. She stood up, slowly drifting nearer as her friends, a blond girl with blue eyes and a red-haired girl, followed her forth. As they began to drift closer, other children began to take notice. A tall, black-haired boy looked over curiously, a boy of around seven years old. Next to him another boy looked curious, too. At the table next to them, a few girls had stopped laughing to throw glances over their shoulders at the confrontation.

"You listen here, newbie! You have no right to tell any of us what to do. We outrank you and ain't nothing changing that. One of us tells you to do something, you do it. We tell ya ta leave, you leave, we tell ya ta bark, you bark. We tell you anything and you do it. That's the way it works around here. The older outrank the younger unless the WICKED scientists place someone higher on the scale. WICKED outranks all else. I don't care what your name is or how old you are, you're a newbie and will be 'til they bring in someone new! So get with the game!" Alby glared down at Newt with dark, icy eyes, somehow cold yet burning a flame of war as Newt looked on.

"Good luck," he murmured softly. "With that. I don't respect nobody who insults my accent! Respect the accent and I can respect you. Don't and I can't." The softly lilting accent was something that Newt hated about himself for and yet still tried to protect in some strange mix of feelings. Newt didn't fully understand all of his feelings, nor could he control them. Emotions were a curious thing to a five-year-old child. While he neither liked nor disliked them, he also didn't understand them, making it very hard for him to decide if he were upset, angry, annoyed, confused or something else entirely. Perhaps just sad would fit his emotion the most. Sad that no one understood him for who he was.

Alby's hands curled into fists. He looked furious and confused, as though no one had ever disobeyed him before (the horror of all horrors! Disobedience...). "You listen here!" He snapped as the people that had come to surround them began to chant one word after another:

"Fight."

"That," Newt said, speaking loudly and clearly for the first time, "is stupid 'cause violence is not justice. All violence does is encourage more violence. I won't fight him." With his words, the disappointed children drifted away, muttering about how much of a weakling the newbie known as Newt was. Just then, Newt didn't care what the others thought of him. He had stood up for something he believed and that made him proud! Just then, tiny Newt didn't care what the other children thought of him. He had done what he thought was right. He hoped the others understood that and would not bully him for it at a later date.

For some strange reason, Newt was not so sure that all would work out as well as he would like.


	3. Thomas and Newt

**Disclaimer: Refer to first chapter.**

**This does not take place in canon but is canon-compliant.**

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><p>Sniffling softly, Newt wiped a tear from his eye. He hated the other children. He hated their laughter filled days and need to belittle him. Just a few hours before Sonya, a blond girl of Newt's age, had discovered that Newt was not immune. It was just another difference that separated him from the others. Newt hated being so different compared to all the other children at the WICKED headquarters. First of all, he was British with a thick accent that refused to fade. Second, he was very shy, compared to most of the other children, who enjoyed the noises that filled the cafeteria. He prefered a quiet corner and good book to constant chatter. Finally, Newt wasn't immune; he knew of three other children in the WICKED facilities who weren't immune and none of them had British accents or were shy. It felt to Newt that no one in the world understood his pain.<p>

He continued quietly through the corridors, for he couldn't say silently as he was still sniffling softly. Finally, he reached the room he was looking for. This particular room was one Newt had never been to, situated in an entirely different wing than that he lived in, a room that he had heard the upper scientists speak of in passing and delight. It was a wing he had never explored before, J Wing. Newt had already explored most of the other wings, J being the second last wing there was and the last he would explore. A was for science-y stuff, B for more science-y stuff and all like that until E Wing. E was for the children to live in, G for research, namely a immense library that Newt adored, H for physical activity, I for the large cafeteria and finally J for a unknown purpose.

Newt was anxious to learn what was within the J Wing and probably wouldn't rest until he knew. What Newt did know was that J was the smallest wing in the WICKED facilities and that only a few of the top WICKED staff were allowed within. They all seemed to return pleased with something and that was what Newt wanted to know about.

As the eight-year-old boy crept along the corridor, he came upon a door that seemed promising. On the front was written 31J, the only thing that discerned it from the other doors running along the hall. Nervously, Newt twisted the knob slightly and opened the door. It creaked and he winced softly but continued onwards into the dimly lit room. Within was a lovely little space, perhaps nine foot across and seven wide. In the near corner to the right of the door was a desk with a chair neatly tucked into it. On the desk sat a small computer with a glowing screen displaying an article on the dangerous disease, the Flare. In the far right corner was a wardrobe with all the drawers neatly tucked in tidily with a small pile of books on top of the wardrobe. In the far left corner was what truly fascinated Newt. It was a bed built into the wall. A rug adorned the floor in that area, a deep blue in colour and there was a lamp tucked into the very corner, as though someone spent a lot of time there. What really caught Newt's attention was the soft murmuring that came from the bed. Previously unnoticed, what appeared to be a heap of messy blankets shifted until a head popped out from the blankets, rolling over until a lightly tanned, small face stared out at Newt, eyes wide in a mixture of confusion and delight.

Newt froze.

The boy snuggled deeper into the pile of blankets that cocooned him and looked at Newt curiously, though a hint of worry shone in his hazel eyes. "You shouldn't be here," he whispered softly. "What if the WICKEDs find you?"

Newt grinned over at the seemingly small boy, trying to hide his upset feelings that he felt inside. "They won't find me," he whispered back. "They never do. I'm sorry for waking you, mate. I'm Newt."

"It's fine," the boy yawned sleepily. "I'm Thomas." His voice was interrupted by another yawn. "Wh- why are you here?" He managed between yawns. His face was relaxed a sleepy, shadowed by the blanket he seemed to be trying to disappear beneath. Fluffy brown hair stuck up all over his head as the blankets rose and fell with his breathing. He seemed to notice how Newt hesitated at the door. "Come in. The WICKs don't enter my room without knocking and permission unless it's after six A.M. You can stay a bit if you'd like."

Shyly, Newt stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, glancing into the last corner where a cozy looking chair stood, made from a fuzzy hunter green material. "Thank you," he stated in his soft accent. "I was exploring. When will you comment on my accent?"

Thomas blinked as though confused in his half-awake state. "Why would I comment on your accent?" He asked sleepily, yawning once again. His eyes were partially closed and his fluffy hair had strands hanging into his eyes, his face wearing a sweet and sleepy expression. He seemed slightly younger than Newt, though only by a year or so. He was probably around seven based on Newt's observations, probably just having turned seven. Thomas let out another yawn and Newt smirked softly, not at all tired, though it was a slightly sad smirk. The guy just seemed so innocent.

"Everyone does," Newt mumbled, looking away from the sleepy boy. "All a' them"

Sleepily, Thomas sat up, the pile of blankets falling away from him as he swung his legs out of his bed. "Don't care," he stated calmly. "Everyone's different. Sit. How long 've ya' been here?"

Sadly, Newt sat on the edge of Thomas' bed, enjoying the comfort that the pile of blankets gave him. "Three years," he replied as the brown-haired boy leant sleepily against him, nuzzling into the arm of Newt's fuzzy pyjamas. "How long have you been here?"

"Only two," was the lazily murmured reply. "I was five. Seven now. My parents were cranks."

Newt looked at the boy next to him, surprised. While he did look young, he didn't quite seem so young. He seemed smarter than most kids with the innocence still mixed in, a strange seeming combination. "I've been here three," he offered, answering the unspoken and possibly unmeant question. "I'm eight as of four months ago! My parents were both munies. I'm not."

"Both you're parents were immune?" Thomas asked, seeming intrigued. "I've read something about the possibilities of that. Something about how twice the amount of immunity genes could be something different- unknown. There was a little girl who caught the Flare a couple years back. It made the news since she lasted so long despite being only three. Studies have shown that most children under the age of five who contract the Flare will be dead within the first two months since their minds aren't as developed as an adults; this girl lasted four, unheard of before. A WICKED scientist did the autopsy and they found out a few things. Her parents were both immunes. Her genetic code was like none ever seen before, very similar to immunes but slightly different." He studied Newt curiously from his low vantage point leaning against Newt's arm. "There've been only a few people with two immunes as parents. One is that girl. One is an immune. And you. Last I checked, anyways. The point is there's at least two different possibilities. Newt, that girl wasn't killed by the Flare. When her hair started to fall out and she began to slur and crave human flesh, she killed herself out of her own fear. You know 'bout the munies, of course. As far as the scientists can tell, there's two possibilities for what a person born to two immunes can be like." He continued to nuzzle his head against Newt's soft pyjamas, seeming to enjoy their fluffy quality, similar to his own. "I reckon that if yer not immune, then yer like the girl."

He sighed sleepily and let out a yawn, resting against the taller boy. "They don't know what her genetic code meant exactly, but they do know a few things. I'm so glad I read about this! Anyways, it was a mixture of regular and immune. The link that had been identified as what stopped the Flare from entering their bodies was there, though it had only just woken up in some of the later stages of the Flare. About when the craving for human meat hit." Thomas shuddered and yawned again. "The rest of her genetic code was basically normal. A few of the regular anomalies that are often seen. Lactose intolerance, dust allergy and blah, blah, blah. Newt..." He paused almost nervously. "That girl would have survived."

Newt looked down at the boy beside him in amazement. That was fantastic detail that he had never heard before. It was as though Thomas were a storage room for files of information that might never leave. Yet despite that he still seemed like any other seven-year-old kid, innocent. It was a strange combination as Newt had said before, but there was one thing that he wasn't sure of. "I'm still different: accent, lack of immunity, British."

Thomas, exhausted by then, yawned once again. "I like your accent. It's somethin' different."

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><p><strong>Sue me. *<span>SPOILER ALERTS AHEAD DEATH CURE<span>* Newt could have survived yet he killed himself before he did. The reason for both people who would have recovered being so mentally unstable (successfully suicidal, I suppose one would say) is that their genes make it more likely for them to be mentally unstable for some reason. I don't know! I'm just trying to seem at least slightly scientific here. *END SPOILERS***

**Please review and give me ideas for future chapters. There will definitely be a few with Ben in them. He's awesome and one of my favourite characters, which may seem odd since he tried to kill Thomas, but I think he's awesome and had been a well-like member of the Glade.**

**Please review as to which two characters you would like to have meet. I'll take the first review I get and use others later.**


	4. Rachel and Teresa

**Disclaimer: Refer to first chapter.**

**Not canon but canon-compliant.**

**This chapter was suggested by _The real world is scary_, so to them I send thanks for their review. This chapter is also dedicated to said author.**

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><p>Rachel had never been for WICKED. They had kept her alone from children of her own age for as long as she could remember, which, admittedly, was only five or so years, but was still horrific nonetheless. In all that time, Rachel could not remember a single meeting with another child of her own age. Or a child in general for that matter. Older or younger. So when she was rather rudely awakened by the sound of her door creaking open, Rachel was not a happy camper. The sound was soft and creepy, just a soft whisper in the quiet of Rachel's room. Upon hearing the sounds, Rachel, previously asleep, awoke with a unseen jerk beneath her warm pile of blankets. Her eyes snapped open as breaths whispered into the air of her private room.<p>

"Who's there?" Rachel mumbled sleepily, deciding to role over. "This is my room. I will defend it!" The effect was ruined by her wide yawn, half-closed eyes and messy hair. Through her half-lidded eyes, Rachel could see a girl a year or so younger than herself. The girl had tar-black hair that hung in waves to the girl's waist. Her eyes were a brilliant and startling blue that seemed to bore into Rachel's tired form. The girl's skin was as pale as the soft, fluffy snow that Rachel had seen only in photos before. Standing in the dim light of Rachel's room with the orange lights streaming in from behind her, the girl looked sinister. Yet lit upon her face was a smile so wide that the girl looked like one of those smiling dolls that Rachel had seen in photos. Rachel had seen very few real things, just the old photos from years long gone and times before the Flare.

"My name is Teresa _Agnes_," the girl replied calmly, watching Rachel. "I apologize deeply for intruding your room. I will leave now." The girl, Teresa bowed her head and began to back out of the room. That intrigued Rachel as she sat up, stretching sleepily.

Through a wide yawn, Rachel spoke. "No, stay. I want to speak to you, at least for a bit. My name is Rachel No-name. How old are you, Ms. Agnes?" WICKED had long since driven manners into the ever-polite Rachel. Along with manners were grammar, eloquence, tactic, fighting skills and several other 'survival' skills. Yes- the first thing that Rachel had learned from WICKED was manners. Followed by grammar and eloquence. Then and only then came the survival and fighting skills. She mentally tsk-ed. Oh, WICKED. Never having their priorities straight. That was a major flaw of the organization that had raised Rachel since she was a little girl. The considered manners more important than survival. You could survive without manners but you could not survive without survival skills. It was simple logic, though Rachel was not at all surprised that WICKED did not understand the nature of simplicity. Nothing about WICKED was simple.

The girl looked up curiously, her blue eyes bright and cheerful. "I'm seven!" She said softly. "I believe that... th-that W-W-WICK-CKED is b-b-b-ba-ad!"

"Holy Fate!" Rachel whispered softly. "You just said that! I'm not hearing things, right? You just spoke out against WICKED? Oh my Fate. I can't believe this." She eyed the younger girl before her. "You, Teresa Agnes, are a very brave young girl. I envy that in you." And Rachel meant it, too. She was eight already and had lived in the WICKED Headquarters since she was three and still hadn't spoken out again the powerful organization that had raised her, no matter how much she disagreed with them. Upon her arrival at the Headquarters, a child slightly older than she, a fair-skinned boy with light brown hair and freckles dashed across his nose, who had welcomed the scientists back with a wide grin and bright eyes. He had offered to give Rachel a tour of the Headquarters only to be told that he was 'too immature' to give anyone a tour and that he should 'remain silent' and that he should return to his room before anyone got hurt. All in all, Rachel had learned never to cross anyone from WICKED. It would be a very bad idea.

"But how old are you?" Teresa asked, clearly not having learned the same lesson as Rachel.

"I'm eight, but don't you understand? What they would do if they found out you said that?" Rachel looked at the slightly younger girl with mature, sad eyes. "Teresa, listen to me now. You have to listen. Are you listening?" Teresa gave a solemn nod of understanding. "WICKED is good. Always remember that. If you are asked what WICKED is, you always say good. WICKED is good. What is WICKED, Teresa?"

Dutifully, the younger girl replied. "WICKED is good." But her voice was empty and sad, dead of life.

Despite her sudden and lifeless demeanor, Rachel smiled at the seven-year-old. "I think you'll be just fine here, Teresa. You'll be just fine. Now can I sleep? It can't be two AM yet, can it?"

Teresa shook her head vigorously after tapping her watch. "It's two oh one, actually."

"What's the difference?" Rachel asked, growing ever sleepier by the minute. "It's still late."

Teresa was grinning wildly, very happily, seeming to have forgotten what Rachel had told her as she started to babble away. "I can't believe I'm finally meeting someone else! Can you believe it? I've been here for two years and I've still only met the scientists! Do you have any friends? Are they nice? What do they look like? Can I meet them? Please, pretty, pretty please can I meet them? I swear I'll be good, please, please, please? Oh, what are their names! I like the name Lizzy. I wish my name were Lizzy. Do you wish your name were something else? What is that name? What's your favourite name? What's your favourite colour? Do you like unicorns?" Teresa blinked over at Rachel with wide eyes. "Do you believe in Santa?"

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><p><strong>Happy New Years! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and are going to review me more ideas! I'll choose the first review to come in and may use other ideas for future chapters!<strong>


	5. Ben and Minho

**Disclaimer: Refer to first chapter.**

**Canon compliant but not canon.**

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><p>Hidden in the shadows of a loud world was one of the few children Minho had never spoken to. He was a small boy, this one; a boy with shaggy, ginger-streaked blond hair. He had a pale complexion, almost as pale as the only paper-like bark of the birch tree, but thankfully not that pale. With his golden-bronze hair, streaked with soft strands of gingers, ranging from the soft tone of a small and flickering fire to the brilliant streaks of dark orange like the darkening leaves of a maple tree, the boy was not hard to pick out from a crowd. Despite his orange-streaked hair, it was his eyes that really drew Minho's attention then. Despite having first seen the smaller, younger boy a few years before, Minho still hadn't spoken to him, which was saying something; Minho spoke to everyone he possibly could. Something about this particular boy had warned Minho away.<p>

It was an unexplainable feeling, almost an aura. If such an aura were to have a colour, the colour of the streaky-haired boy would be an icy blue. It was such a pale colour, yet very dramatic as well. It radiated out from the boy almost like rays of the sun radiating out from the centre of the sun. Imagine that an aura were an eye. The iris was ice blue and flecked with colours, rings of colours, that spiralled out. While most of the boy's aura was the icy blue that warned Minho away, the flecks were the truly terrifying part. First, placed in a tight ring around the 'pupil' was an enchanting and mystical dark blue. Each fleck seemed to be the size of a small pebble in the aura, or merely a torn piece of a tiny leaf in an actual eye. Following that ring was an equally dark and mystical purple, scattered into the first ring slightly and spanning the centre of the 'iris'. Each fleck was the size of a tiny piece of glitter in an aura or a speck of dust in an actual eye. The final ring was created from widespread flecks of yellow, each fleck the size of the purple flecks in the icy blue. To Minho, always one for mystique and the unknown, _spirituality_ if he was being honest with himself, each colour of the 'iris' meant something.

First, the icy blue symbolized the intellectual and overwhelming side of the boy. Following that was dark blue, representing a side filled with knowledge and power through such knowledge with a severity mixed within giving him his seemingly warning aura. Then was the dark purple that showed sadder events in the boy's past; dark purple was a frustrated and gloomy colour. Finally was yellow, showing the side that the boy tried to hide. Yellow was not only the colour of curiosity, but also wisdom and spirituality. Not only that, but yellow was also a cheerful colour, filled with joy and freedom. It was easily clear to Minho that this boy was a very complicated person.

His footsteps were soft as Minho smiled his friends goodbye, walking on to where the boy stood, half-hidden in the shadows. Minho plopped down cheerfully at the table nearest the boy and smiled at the younger boy brightly. His tablemates, a couple of girls, Ellie, Lisa, and Lou, a boy named Dave and another boy called Jake, all gave him a cheerful 'Hello!' and Minho waved back brightly, flashing a pure white smile- he could not remember the last time he had _not_ brushed his teeth. It was just another thing that had been drilled into him since he had arrived at the WICKED Headquarters.

"Hey," Minho called over to the streaked-haired boy. "Why don't 'cha sit down?"

Hesitantly, the boy stepped from the shadows, revealing his glowing, dark blue eyes filled with quiet mystique. He did not speak, simply watched Minho with a lock of his shaggy, pale orange hair falling across his eyes. It was only that one strand that was out of place, the rest of the boy's hair meticulously tucked behind his ears. As Minho watched, the boy brought one hand up to tuck the stray lock behind his ear before lowering his hand and continuing to watch Minho just as the dark-haired boy watched him.

"I'm Minho! Wha's yer name, shank?"

To Minho's disappointment and irritation, the boy did not answer for quite a while, seeming to ponder what he should say. Finally, a full five- the horror -minutes later, the boy spoke. "Ben." His voice was a low murmur that drew no attention to himself. Minho could hardly here him over the loudly spoken words and laughter of the cafeteria they were within. It was a fitting voice for the boy, Minho decided. No, not the boy. Ben. His name was Ben. "Might I ask why you care?"

Oh, harsh! Minho just grinned so brightly that his smile stretched the length of his face with ease. "I dunno. I just do. Eyy, why'd 'cha never speak to nobody?"

Ben's face contorted into an expression of confusion. "I do not speak to Nobody. I speak to those who exist, not Nobody."

It was Minho's turn to be confused. He had not expected the younger boy to take his words so literally. Changing topic seemed like a good idea just then. "How old are you? I'm nine, almost ten."

Sighing, Ben replied grudgingly. "Seven. I repeat. Why do you wish to speak to me?"

Minho sighed. It seemed he was not able to avoid that particular question. "I've spoken to everyone else in here. I've met the Brit, Newt, who doesn't speak to anyone. I'm friends with Clint who never stops talking. Sonya glares at me every time I speak to her, same with Harriet. Beth and I have been friends since we arrived, even if she is younger than me. I feel like I've known Gally my entire life. Thing is, Benny-boy, you're the only dude here I haven't spoken to. I have a rep to uphold! Speak to all, friends with all. I-"

"I thought you said Sonya and Harriet glare at you," Ben interrupted calmly, watching Minho with a note of curiosity in his gaze.

"Well they do, but we're still friends. As I was saying, I know _everyone_! I'm friends with _everyone_! I'm a favourite!"

Ben studied him warily. "Then why does the blond boy you speak of, the Brit, Newt, not like you? I have spoken to Newt. He holds contempt for everyone here. Even you, Minho. Why do you not go sit with him? Newt is lonely." His mysterious blue eyes blinked up at Minho in an innocent manner.

Minho sighed once again. "I like Newt, I really do, but I don't want to risk loosing all my other friends."

"A true friend stays with you forever. A fake friend is only with you for popularity. I suggest you rethink your friends."

And with that, the mysterious boy sank back into the shadows, his eyes glowing in the dark, ginger-streaked hair tucked neatly behind his ears.

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><p><strong>Yay! My next chapter is done! Ben is one of my favourite characters in the Maze Runner. I would like the thank 'The real world is scary' once again for supporting my want to do a chapter for Ben. I would also like to thank 'ThePhantomRunnerOfLesMiserables'. The next chapter will be Gally and Thomas.<strong>


	6. Gally and Thomas

**Disclaimer: Refer to first chapter.**

**Non-canon but canon compliant.**

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><p>Thomas was really getting tired of being woken in the middle of the night by strange children- all older than him -exploring. It was almost as though they had not a care in the world for how Thomas felt as he steadily lost sleep and had trouble gaining it back. It was not that Thomas did not like the British boy, Newt, who visited him once a week or so, but he needed his sleep desperately. It would have been fine if it were <em>only<em> Newt who were visiting him, but there was also a boy of ten years who visited twice or even thrice a week. He had started to do slightly worse in his lessons, having trouble concentrating on anything. Slowly but surely, his teachers became more and more annoyed with him, considering sending Thomas to one of the psychiatrists to find out what was 'wrong' with him. It was not his fault that people kept interrupting his sleep! So this time when he was work from his peaceful and dream-free slumber, Thomas was determined not to loose sleep. Without even looking up to see who had entered his peaceful room, Thomas growled from beneath his warm pile of blankets, eyes still closed.

"Get outa my room!" He complained in a sleepy and very annoyed voice, rolling over so that his back faced the door. "Le'me sleep!" The long whine of his door opening stopped abruptly. But it didn't start up again. There was no sound of footsteps, neither leaving or approaching, nor even the sound of an intruder's soft, quiet breathing. There was not the slight chuckle that Aris, one of the potential intruders, would give. There also was not the quiet words that Newt would bring. Very reluctantly, Thomas rolled back over and poked his head out from the blankets, only to see a new face this time. Neither annoying Aris or nice Newt, this was a boy with short, military cut black hair, dark eyes and what Thomas thought to be a nose that looked like a malformed potato. He winced. That was rude of him.

Thomas sighed softly. "Hello, my name is Thomas, I am seven years old, have been here for two years and am immune. WICKED is good, so let me sleep now." He glared sleepily at the other boy who was looking at him oddly, the dim light from the hallways leaking past him and casting a warm glimmer across Thomas' room. The boy almost grinned at Thomas, a look of amusement lighting up his pale face. Thomas noticed a splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose and spreading on over his cheeks. They were all very small and pale, scarcely noticeable despite his pale skin.

The boy nodded a hello, finally speaking to reveal a scratchy voice that did not appeal to Thomas' ears. "I'm Gally, eight-years-old, been here for half my life and I'm also immune. I concur, WICKED is indeed good and no. I will _not_ let you sleep. You have peaked my curiosity. Why are you separated from the others?"

Thomas continued to glare at said Gally. "I don't give a rat's tail for why I'm here and not with everyone else, so let me sleep!" He let out a irritated and tired growl at the boy.

Gally held his hands up, still standing in the doorway. "I don't give a rat's nose for the fact that you're tired, _I'm_ curious! Tell me and I'll let you rest." Crossing his arms over his chest, Gally glared at Thomas. "Well?!" He demanded in annoyance when Thomas didn't immediately reply.

"I don't freaking no! Now get out of here before I make you! I'm freaking tired so go! Now!"

Gally stepped forward, a menacing expression on his face. "Listen here, pipsqueak! I'm older than you, so I outrank you. You listen here, now. Tell me why you are separated from the others!"

"Look!" Thomas growled darkly. "I don't know who you are, I don't care who you are, what I know is that this is _my _terrain, my room. Here, I outrank everyone. Considering the fact that you're in my room, you're acting pretty stuck up. If you want answers, why don't you go ask the Director or something. I don't have the answers to what you want to know. Jeez, why can't you at least be nice like Newt is. He _apologized _for waking me up, didn't bug me with questions that I couldn't answer and left when he thought I was getting really tired! You are have done none of those things! Aris, idiot he may be, at least knocks first! Now get out of my damn room!"

"Grump," Gally mumbled in annoyance. "Your no fun!" His black, crew-cut hair stood up in front like a little Mohawk, casting a shadow across his face while his brown eyes shone from beneath the cold shadow. He was dressed in a simple set of pyjamas, not like the fuzzy ones Newt wore. They were a plain dark blue and had no appeal whatsoever. All in all, he seemed to be a sight for sore eyes with the deformed potato that took the place of his nose, similar to pictures of a strange type of extinct monkey Thomas had seen, one with a very large nose.

"Look!" Thomas hissed at the boy glaring ferociously at his over-sized nose. "Get out of my room this instant! I'm exhausted, too tired to pay attention in class and my grades are slipping." His eyes turned desperate as he blew a lock of his brown hair out of his eyes. "I can't afford to fail any of my classes, let alone all of them like I'm going to if I don't get enough rest. I can work with loosing one night of sleep a week, but I'm this week I've already lost five, including you. I can't operate like this. Please," he pleaded softly. "Just let me sleep."

Gally frowned as though confused at the thought of _wanting_ to rest. Clearly, he was not loosing nearly as much sleep as Thomas. He huffed darkly, spinning on his heel and slamming the door shut behind him. Thomas smiled at the doorway, shrinking into his blankets and drifting off into the beautiful darkness of sleep.

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><p><strong>Hey guys! This is my chapter for Thomas and Gally's first meeting. Please review and drop of an idea, though I may do Newt and Minho next. I'm afraid I won't be able to read any reviews for a soon approaching twenty-four hours about a day and a half from now, so I need ideas soon if I want to be able to update after my lack of internet has left.<strong>


	7. Newt and Minho

**Disclaimer: Refer to first chapter.**

**Canon complaint but not canon, as per usual.**

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><p>Newt was not the loud child amongst the WICKED children, nor the strongest and most definitely not most well-liked, but he was best at something. Newt was the Observer, watching carefully and calculating. Newt knew who would fall on their face in a few minutes, which child was heading for embarrassment and who would be picking on Newt within the next ten minutes. On top of being the Observer, Newt was also among the nicest children amongst the WICKED children, though there was not much contest for him. Each time on of the hundred-or-so bullies fell on their face during a game of full-tackle basketball, Newt helped them up. Each time one of them was embarrassed about something stupid, Newt shot them a sympathetic and reassuring smile. Of course, he was almost always ignored for the good deeds he did for the others, but he did not care. So long as he was helping, Newt was happy- ish. He could never be truly happy at the WICKED Headquarters. Newt had been bullied his entire life and had not even been allowed to keep a photo of his Greenland Dog when he moved to the WICKED Headquarters. He had really loved the large, golden-brown and white dog who had been his protector in the north of Canada where his family had lived after leaving England, going as far as to name her Volpur, a variant of the Icelandic word for puppy.<p>

Closing his eyes sadly, Newt pictured Volpur; her large brown eyes, woolly triangle ears and tail wrapped around her nose. He leaned back against the wall next to his bed, trying to relax despite the fact that he had been thrown into a new roommate. Newt normally hated new people, though he had become slightly more open since he had met his dear friend Thomas, the small, sweet boy who never stopped sprouting facts. Newt enjoyed the evenings he was able to sneak away to meet up with Thomas, normally talking about the people they interacted with or their past lives. They weren't long interactions, certainly not, but Newt enjoyed speaking to someone who didn't judge him simply because he had an accent. Of all the reasons to dislike someone, having an accent was a very bad reason indeed.

Newt really hoped that his latest roommate, a boy allegedly named Minho, would be better than his previous ones. First had been a guy called Jackson, who wasn't immune like Newt, and was bitter about being non-immune and basically sentenced to death amongst hoards of children who were immune. Newt, not caring for the fact that he wasn't immune, had not gotten along well with the other boy. Then had come a boy known as Siggy who insisted upon being called Frypan since he liked to cook so much. That had been an alright pairing, though they eventually switched Newt out for a kid named Clint so that Newt was with a boy called Jeff with whom Newt constantly argued with, causing for Jeff to be switched for this roommate, Minho.

At the sound of the door to his small room creaking open, Newt opened his eyes, looking up to see the person who must have been his new roommate. Vaguely recognizing him, Newt searched his memory for where he had seen Minho from before. Ah, that was it. Minho was the chatter-box of the WICKED children. He was the one who spoke to pretty much everyone, Newt not being an exception and having spoken to him a few times before, though no more than just a quick 'hi' each time.

Minho slipped in, closing the door behind him, his backpack of belongings sliding from his shoulder. "Hello," Minho greeted calmly. "You're Newt, right? The Brit?"

"Right," Newt mumbled glumly. "The Brit. That's all I am." He watched his new roommate with dark, guarded eyes. He was always weary of new people, no matter how nice they seemed. Unless they were Thomas. The small boy seemed to be the exception to everything, especially the normal.

The other boy flinched slightly. "Sorry," he apologized though didn't seem too sincere about it. Minho plopped down on the other cot in the room, his backpack dropping beside him as Minho began to pull out his few belongings, none of them from his old life. It was a meager lot, just two pairs of plain cargo pants in a drab grey colour and two shirts in a simple blue. He had plain white socks as well. "You know?" He said suddenly. "You have a good aura, Newt."

Newt could have sworn he did a double take. "Wait, seriously? Auras? I didn't know anyone believed in that stuff."

Minho grinned. "I believe that everyone has a destiny that is hinted at by their aura, the representation of who they are. Yours is good. Comprende?"

"Oui," Newt said, absently switching languages. "Err, yes." He crossed is arms over his chest, watching the other boy wearily. "What's my aura?"

Regarding Newt cheerfully, Minho studied him. "Imagine an aura is a human eye. There's the iris of colour and the pupil. The aura takes the place of the iris. The iris of your aura is mostly deep blue, the really bright one. There are... three rings of colour. The first, closest to the pupil, you, is dark blue. Following that is a mixture of beige and ivory. The final ring is... orange?"

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Newt demanded.

In response Minho laughed. "You normally a calm person. You're loyal and a good person to trust. Confidence is one of your strong points and you would never lie unless there's a life threatening situation. You're good with technology and love order. The first ring shows that you're knowledgeable and serious most of the time. The beige and ivory flecks symbolize unity, quiet and calm. Finally, the orange I don't quite understand. Energetic, enthusiastic, warm and filled with humour. No offense, shank, but I just don't understand."

Newt cracked a small smile. "That does kind of fit. Back home, it was the same thing each day, very orderly. I never left anyone behind and haven't lied in years. I was very confident before I met some of the idiots here. I believe in unified forces and joking around but still keepin' it serious. I have controlled energy. I could be off hunting for a day or two and come home just fine. As for humour, that one just has to be uncovered."

Grinning, Minho slapped his new roommates back. "I think we'll get on just fine, shank."

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><p><strong>I really like colour symbolism, don't I. As usual, please drop a review with an idea for the next chapter since I have no ideas. I'll take anything!<strong>


	8. Chuck and Gally

** strange, grey material. Disclaimer: Refer to first chapter.**

**Canon Compliant but not canon, though that is no surprise.**

**I'm really sorry this has taken so long, but Chuck and Gally just didn't flow for me.**

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><p>"You're the Chuckiest Chuck-faced Chuck I've ever met," the dark-haired boy stated simply. This boy looked to be about ten, his black hair styled into a slight Mohawk that made his face appear sharper than it probably was. His eyebrows were an odd feature about him, like upside-down V's with wide edges that did stretch just over the length of each of his eyes. His nose was large and misshapen, the same shape as a malformed potato, though Chuck would never dream of saying that to a boy who looked so cruel. The boy's eyes sat deeply beneath his strange eyebrows, bright brown in colour. He was a boy with a strange, appearance certainly and he seemed to be twice Chuck's age.<p>

Chuck looked up at the much taller boy. " 'Course!" He squeaked brightly. "I _am _Chuck!"

The boy froze. "What the?..." his voice trailed off. "You're the newbie?!" He then demanded. "The small one everyone's talking 'bout? Your name is Chuck?!"

Looking up at the much taller boy with large, brown eyes, Chuck blinked at him owlishly, nodding his head. "Oh, crap! Now we need to change the slang. Minho! Where's Minho!" He glared around the large cafeteria, seeming to be searching for someone. "Hey you lot! The young one's name is Chuck! We need to change the slang! Minho!" His voice was loud as he shouted across the room. From the nearby tables, people glanced over to look at Chuck curiously, though from farther away nothing happened. "Hey idiots!" The boy roared. "The little dude's name is Chuck! We need Minho to change the slang!"

That time, the cafeteria slowly grew silent and a boy with jet black hair that stood up all over his head rose from his own table. "The slang term 'Chuck' will now be 'Shuck'!" He shouted to which the whole cafeteria let up a roar of agreement. It was as though they had planned what they were doing.

The boy shook Chuck's hand enthusiastically, almost lifting him off the ground in doing so. "Pleased to meet you, Chuck. My name is Gally. Welcome to the WICKED facilities where such 'gifted' youngsters are taught and trained for pretty much shucking everything. Damnit, I don't like Minho's new words as much. Ah, oh well." He, Gally, watched Chuck with a new found interest. "So, what'cha good at, newbie?"

Chuck avoided his gaze nervously. He wasn't good at very many things. He didn't have good grammar, nor could he build much of anything. Chuck couldn't even make friends easily. Chuck had almost no skill in much of anything. When Chuck had been given his father's set of old lego, he had failed terribly, the spaceship becoming something more akin to a glob of mush. When his mother had tried to get Chuck to help her cook pancakes, he had failed pathetically, the pancakes becoming burned and charred. No matter what Chuck did, he never seemed to succeed. His overly competitive parents pushed Chuck to be the best and no matter how hard Chuck tried to please them, please them for his entire life and just as long for theirs, he never succeeded. When his parents had caught the terrible disease known as the Flare, they hadn't gone traditionally made, rather become even more competitive and with it, more violent. A month after Chuck's parents had fallen ill, WICKED had taken him away from his old home to become part of the possible cure. Chuck did care for his parents, certainly, so he went with WICKED and agreed to be the good little subject that they needed, even renaming him Chuck.

"Nothin'," Chuck replied glumly. "I broke Da's legos and burned Ma's pancakes!"

Gally looked at the shorter boy, sympathy shining in his black eyes. "Well that's okay, Chuckie. You can't be good at everything, ya know. There's something out there that's just write for you. It may not be the survival skills that WICKED want you to have, but you're good at something. Just keep yer chin up and you'll find it."

All Chuck could do in response was drop his chin farther to the ground. His warm brown eyes gazed glumly at the cold, plastic ground beneath his feet that shuffled nervously against the strange grey floor. He hated the fakeness of it all, hated the way that he was terrible at everything, hated his lack of friends and hated his age. Chuck was new to the WICKED Headquarters, only five years old, baby fat still clinging to his form and hair sticking up in curly brown locks. There was very little abut himself that Chuck didn't hate- and it only made himself hate himself even more. A hand grasped his chin and Chuck instinctively squirmed, flinching away in confusion, though calming when he saw it was only Gally.

"Listen to me, Chuck. You can't be more than six. You don't have a shucking calling in life yet and you shouldn't yet, either. I don't know who I am. No one here knows who we are deep down. We're all just the same as you, children who know not of our destinies. We were all terrible at everything at some point. I still can't write properly and type with two fingers. For as long as I've been here, those older than I have been helping me through my troubles. If _I _could learn, then anyone can. All you have to do is believe in yourself, kay Chuck?" He looked Chuck straight in the eyes, the blackness that hung deep within Gally's eyes boring gently into Chuck's soul. "Keep your chin up and some day, you'll know just as we all will. It's Fate."

And Chuck wrapped his stubby arms around Gally's legs. "You're my first friend," he whispered softly. My only friend." Awkwardly, Gally hugged Chuck back.

Seven years later, the two friends met again. Chuck, only knowing his name, stared up into the light, eyes still as chocolate brown as ever and as Gally knelt over him, Chuck felt a whimper escape his throat. He was truly terrified.

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><p><strong>I just had to do that ending. Chuck, terrified of his first friend. It makes me so sad.<strong>


	9. Aris and Thomas

**Disclaimer: Refer to first chapter.**

**Can ya guess? Canon compliant but not canon.**

**Holy klumk! I just realized Gally's shucking younger then Thomas! He's supposed to be fifteen when Thomas arrives, but I've made him seventeen. Whoops.**

**I am so shucking sorry that this chapter is so late. It's no excuse, but I came down with the flu Sunday afternoon and simply couldn't write.**

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><p>In many long years at the WICKED Headquarters, twelve-year-old Aris Jones had never met anyone but the scientists. There was Director Paige, Assistant Director Janson, Doctor Martins and Doctor Trainee Solodko who actually had names that Aris knew. There would always be the faceless, nameless doctors around, though they did not matter. Director Paige because she was the Director and had welcomed him to the WICKED Headquarters seven years previously. AD Janson quite simply because he came to Aris' room around once a month with some format of test which Aris always aced. Doctor Martins had been the first doctor Aris had met, the one who had sedated him before a surgical procedure that had placed implants into his brain. DT Solodko was simply Aris' only friend, and atop that his caretaker who woke him at six each morning and brought him food for each meal. Only knowing five names- including his own -had long since begun to wear down on Aris. He did not like having such a lonely life, but now that he was finally meeting someone, Aris was terrified.<p>

It was rather strange to be scared, but Aris truly was. The boy he was probably supposed to be speaking with was a small, fluffy haired boy with large, owlish hazel eyes that stared at Aris as though boring into Aris' soul in the strangest of fashion. Sighing, Aris avoided the tiny boy's gaze. His eyes were gentle enough, face innocent yet filled with curiosity, as though studying Aris. He looked sweet and innocent, though that didn't stop the train of fear that plunged to Aris' heart. It was odd that Aris was scared of such a small, sweet-looking boy who couldn't have been more than nine, yet he was.

"Hi," the boy mumbled absently, not looking at Aris, rather scanning the room. "My name's Thomas." The boy, Thomas, spoke with a neutral American accent that was quiet and calm. Each word he spoke was very soft, though perfectly enunciated as though he were older than he seemed. Thomas looked at Aris then, eyes wide and innocent, a shy curiosity burning a soft fire. Aris softened, slightly, still unsure of what to do since he was confronted by something entirely foreign and terrifying to him.

Finally, a few minutes later, Aris replied, voice as tiny as the flame a match lit. "Aris," he whispered, voice faint as the soft wisp of wind that occasionally hushed through the corridors of the WICKED Headquarters in the midst of a cool day. It was always soothing to feel the soft gusts of wind against his face after a long lesson or session of running. It eased his worries, the worries that every child in the WICKED Headquarters had; that they simply were not good enough and never would be.

Thomas flashed Aris a bright grin, two front teeth showing missing gaps in his smile, though all as white as that fluffy substance Aris had seen in pictures, _snow_. "Nice to meet you Aris," he stated politely, reaching a hand across the table which the older boy hesitantly took, still scared, shaking it slightly before retreating his hand back to his lap, where it belonged. After a moment of silence that would have been considered awkward for anyone with social graces, so anyone but Aris basically, the boy coughed slightly, speaking again. "How old are you? You look older than me, though only by a few years."

Aris studied him hesitantly for a long moment. "Twelve." He sent an unspoken message with his pale green eyes.

"I'm nine. I've lived here for four years, since I was five. Does that mean that you've been here for seven years?"

Quickly growing overwhelmed by the boy's boldness, he raised a hand to his forehead, pushing back a lock of his sandy brown hair before resting his hand lightly on his temple. He glanced away from the boy again, scanning the walls for any reason to avoid speaking to Thomas, yet finding none. "Eight," he stated finally.

From the corner of his pale green eyes Aris saw the other boy tilt his head to the side slightly, face growing curious. "So you were four when you came? And twelve now? So when the Killzone Experiment begins you'll be sixteen? And you'll go up at nineteen? Wow, won't you be a lot older than most of them?"

Aris' hand trembled against his temple. He'd never been asked so many questions before, let alone at such a fast pace or on a topic as ludicrous as age. Slowly, he nodded, not replying verbally and still scanning the walls for any excuse not to speak to the boy. There was none.

Seconds dribbled by, quickly followed by minutes according to Aris' watch. The soft ticking sound of two identical watches on the exact same time, not off my a millisecond, filled the small room. Thomas seemed to be waiting for Aris to ask a question his large hazel eyes boring into Aris like a drill into stone, hard and unyielding. With each second that dribbled by, each minute counted, Aris grew edgier and edgier, a itch sitting at the small of his back. He reached back to scratch in in annoyance, disliking the irritation it caused him. A deep, droning ache had settled on his skull, penetrating deeper than a normal headache did and refusing to yield. Aris winced slightly at the feeling. It was not that Aris was unaccustomed to such things, rather that he disliked them greatly. That was not the first time Aris had been subject to pounding headaches, rather the umpteenth time- and Aris hoped the last. Each time he hoped the deep-seated ache would be the last, though it never seemed to be. A voice drew him back to reality.

"Are you alright, Aris?"

Of course, Aris nodded in response to Thomas' question. Of course he was alright, he was always alright and nothing would change that, not the Flare or the Trials or anything at all. No matter what, Aris would always be alright. "Of course," he stated simply. Yet deep, deep down, Aris knew that he was simply lying.

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><p><strong>I really hope you enjoyed this and all of that stuff! It's great to be writing after spending almost a entire week sitting around do absolutely nothing! I'm actually quite surprised by this, but Pinkfan-gurl suggested Minho and Teresa, so I'll do that next. There's one I am really looking forward to, I'm sure you can guess it, and it's between two of the three main characters...<strong>


	10. Minho and Teresa and Thomas

**Disclaimer: Refer to first chapter.**

**I am so, so sorry about my recent slow updates, guys, but I've had a really big school project that I just finished up last night, so I woke up and was like "I'm gonna write now" so here it is!**

**This is Minho and Teresa and Thomas meet combined into one, by the way.**

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><p>He <em>was<em> hot, Teresa supposed, gazing at Subject A7. A7 was a tall boy of Asian descent with spiked up dark hair and dark eyes that seemed to bore into Teresa. It was an entrancing appearance, that grasped Teresa's attention and refused to allow it to waver. A7 tilted his head back, continuing to gaze at Teresa with slim eyes. Beside her, Thomas dug a elbow into her side, causing Teresa to shoot him a glance, refusing to allow emotion to trickle into it, just as she had been taught. Teresa showed almost no emotion whether on her face or in her eyes, nor did she allow her almost non-existent emotions to affect her and her work. Thomas had been taught the same, though had learned to pick up the slight hints that Teresa did give off and even preferred to show his emotions rather than hide them. He had found that hiding emotions only led to 'greater emotional responses' or something along those lines. In Teresa's opinion, it was extremely stupid, but she had long since decided that Thomas was welcome to his own thoughts. If he did not want to be strong, he did not have to be. Nonetheless, Teresa still found her brother figure to be annoyingly stupid in that manner, but there you go.

A7 tilted his head back, dark eyes glowing with challenge as he leant against the blank wall behind him. The three youngsters had been ordered A7 into the room, dull walls, three chairs and a table, for no apparent purpose, Thomas and Teresa watching from a video camera. Then Chancellor Paige had come to get them, asking them to explain the Killzone Experiment's first stage, the Maze. So there they were, awkwardly sitting at the table showing almost no emotion while staring at a sassy boy of fourteen who seemed very stubborn.

"Sit," Teresa advised finally, her eyes not leaving A7's face. "There is a lot to speak of. What did the Chancellor tell you?"

A7 regarded her with cold eyes, not sitting nor speaking. His expression seemed to say, quite obviously, 'Go to hell'.

Teresa spoke again. "My name is Teresa Agnes and this is my partner, Thomas. We are here to explain the Killzone experiment. The KE is a project instigated by the World in Catastrophe: Killzone Experiment Department, or WICKED as it is affectionately called by many of its members and members of the community. The purpose of the KE is to find a cure for the virus that is plaguing our world, the Flare. Of course, you probably know that. For the KE, you, along with thirty-nine other bots, will be placed in what we call the Maze. The Maze is a highly sophisticated system of moving walls that will change during the night. At the centre of the Maze is a large square with forests and fields. When you enter the Glade, as we call the square within the Maze, you will have no memories. All forty of you will have no memories save for your name. Do you understand?"

A7 gave a slight nod of understanding, eyes not leaving Teresa. His face was a sarcastic smirk that seemed to fit him quite well. "Oh shuck yes I understand! When can we start?"

Thomas gave A7 an odd look. "You are supposed to be screaming at us right now."

"Seriously?! Yes!" A7 raised his voice in a bad imitation of Molly Weasley. "How dare you break such news to me! Your Chancellor's facing an inquiry at work and it's entirely your fault!" He stopped speaking, seemingly trying to remember the next words to Mrs. Weasley's speech. "If I hear another word out of your mouth, I'll, I'll, ehm, bring death to your doorstep! Yeah, that's it! Bring death to your doorstep!"

Thomas let out an amused huff, a slight glint of humour in his eyes. "I applaud your sense of humour-"

"Good! I have an excellent sense of humour!"

"-But I am afraid-

"No, don't be afraid!"

"-To inform you that-"

"That what?"

"-You are going to-"

"To what?"

"-Have your memory wiped!"

Irritation laced Thomas' voice as he stared sadly into A7s eyes. The tall boy looked on the verge of fainting as Thomas stood from his seat to stand next to A7, gently nudging him to the waiting chair. The boy seemed to have gone into shock, his dark eyes blank with fear and confusion. A7 sat down, not paying attention to anything as Thomas gently pat his shoulder. A tiny, crystalline tear traced A7's cheek as he seemed to take a deep breath of inhalation, his eyes still blank.

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news," Thomas stated, voice as soft as his fluffy blankets that he'd had since he had arrived at WICKED, the only comforts of home that WICKED had managed to find for their most precious subject. Thomas' favourite had been the one he kept from his old home from before WICKED had taken him away. Teresa was on the verge of face-palming at the raw emotion that was radiating from her friend- her friend that she sincerely did not have a crush on and treated as more of a brother, she might add.

"Thomas!" She hissed quietly, giving him a stinky look. His eyes raised to meet hers.

"I'm welcome to my own emotions, Teresa. Nothing is going to change that. I am not a robot and never intend to be." His gaze dropped again, resting lightly on the back of A7's head. "Are you alright?" he asked in the same soothingly soft voice as before. Very faintly, A7 nodded, his former unshakeable exterior having dripped away just as glaciers did after the sun flares.

"I'll be fine," was the hoarse whisper that followed. He then looked up, saddened. "I will get to say goodbye to everyone, right?"

"Of course," Thomas stated gently. "Minho, right?"

There was another faint nod. "Let me assure you, Minho, everything will be alright."

And as the tan boy glanced up to meet Teresa's eyes, she saw the unspoken message. 'I hope.'


	11. Minho and Newt and Thomas

**Disclaimer: Refer to first chapter.**

**Sorry about the wait before this chapter, but I received no advice on who I should do until I PM-ed Kingy.77 asking if Minho, Newt and Thomas would be a good idea for the next chapter. Kingy said yes so here I am. I should inform you that this is the last chapter****.**

**My cat ate my charger so the stupid store took my computer for, like, two weeks and then I had to write something else so I've had almost no time for this. I've got tones of stuff due soon, but I'm trying.**

**Honestly, I am quite lazy though.**

* * *

><p>Newt had not always been tall; at ten he'd stood at a mere 4'9, shorter than the rest of his age group with ease. Even the younger children were taller than him. At twelve, Newt had been a wee bit taller than Beth, a pretty girl with black-hair and dark eyes- and Beth was short, very short at 4'11. At fourteen, Newt had begun to grow like no tomorrow. There had been one night where Newt had fallen asleep and woken up the next morning to be two centimeters taller; he felt like he were the beanstalk from that old fairy tale- Jack and the Beanstalk. It was quite simply crazy. As Newt shot up, he felt as though all his classmates were shrinking until, six months after Newt, another boy had shot up. That boy's name was Minho. He was sassy and annoying as shuck, yet one of the nicer children in the WICKED Headquarters. Of course, there was also Thomas who was easily the nicest person Newt had ever met. Of course, that wasn't hard but nonetheless Thomas was very nice. It was odd for Newt's only friend to be a boy he wasn't supposed to know existed. Naturally, rebellious Newt had decided to throw the rules aside and continue to do what he wanted like the street kid he had been born as. He continued to hang out the boy of lesser rebellion and would continue to do so for years. In public he would say that he knew no one by the name of Thomas if he were asked. Thomas was the person closest to Newt, the boy had said, and vice versa. Thomas had never been cruel to Newt, nor anyone else that Newt knew of.<p>

And all this was despite having hardly met _anyone_. For as long as Thomas could remember, he had only known a few people; or so he told Newt. He said there was Director Paige, A.D. Janson, two doctors, the head and one who had taken care of Thomas as a young child, and a girl just a bit older than him. It was strange for Newt, who was surrounded by _too many_ people day and night to here about a person who scarcely knew anyone.

That was not the point. The point was Newt had sprouted up like a beanstalk and now was sitting in the same room as a very depressed Minho and a sad Thomas.

A moment before an irritated girl had stomped from the room. "You know what?" She'd snapped. "I'm done! This is hopeless!"

"Teresa!" Thomas had protested before stopping. Clearly, it was pointless.

Their eyes met for a moment. Brilliant blue met nervous hazel. It was a silent agreement, naturally. Newt did not know Thomas and Thomas did not know Newt. The latter boy offered up a faint and nervous smile at Thomas and Minho. "Hello Minho, hello Thom- ah! Do I know you?"

Minho shot Newt and odd look through a veil of pain and anger. "How do you know him?"

"I'm Thomas," Thomas replied, clearly the better actor of the two friends. "You're A5, yes? And you do know, Minho here, right?" He patted said boy's shoulder gently. "I'm afraid I have some bad news, A5. What's your real name, anyways? I prefer real names to letters and numbers."

Newt breathed out a long sigh. "Newt, cha- ehm, sorry." Thomas gave a friendly nod at Newt, ignoring his slip up. "So, what's the dark news? What's bad? We all gonna die, now?" When Thomas didn't answer, Newt burst out with anger bubbling in his voice. "Tell me ya bloody idiot! I have to know!"

"Calm it, blondie. I'll tell ya. We are not all going to die. Eck, how do you want me to break it to you? You want the sugar or the salt?"

"Salt, please," Newt replied, strangely nervous.

"We are not all going to die. You've heard of the Killzone Experiment, right? That's the department that we're part of. It's slightly complicated, but the point is the largest and by far the most dangerous part of the experiment is just beginning. The whole and entire point of this experiment is to find a cure for the Flare. The Flare is the only reason we're here; we need to find the Cure. Soon, in just a few hours, really, I'm extremely sorry to tell you- oh what am I doing? I just need to blurt it out." Thomas paused and took a deep breath. "You will soon be entering the highly sophisticated Maze. The Maze is a system moving walls designed to confuse and scare. You, along with 39 other boys, Minho included, will wake up in the centre of the Maze, the Glade, with no memories save for your names. You got that?"

Newt froze. His limbs went still and eyes glassy. "I can't do this," he whispered. "I'll die. We're all gonna die. I'd rather shoot myself than live."


End file.
